Angels Fear To Tread
by beatlesaddict
Summary: A sequel to Living In Interesting Times, in which I attempt to write an actual detective story. Considering what it's a sequel to, it should be fairly obvious that there's slash in it. Still, don't like, don't read. Rated for Jason.
1. Angels Fear To Tread

**AN: Well, I was instructed to write a sequel, so here goes nothing. Admittedly, this is a bit of a prologue, rather than a first chapter per se, but I had some scene-setting I wanted to do. I'll add chapters when I have time, but I'm off back to college in a few days, so they may not be enormously regular.**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy it...**

* * *

**Angels Fear To Tread**

I don't want to get up – lying here with Dick is the closest to heaven I'm ever liable to get. Still, whoever tops makes breakfast, so I don't have an awful lot of choice in the matter. After wriggling carefully out of bed, I take a left on leaving the room (I'm at Dick's apartment: if we were at my place, the bathroom would be in the opposite direction) to take a quick shower, before heading to the kitchen, wearing a towel around my hips. A brief scan of the cupboards and fridge alerts me to the fact that Dick really needs to go shopping, but that I have the right ingredients to make pancakes. Fine by me. I sing quietly to myself as I mix the batter, absent-mindedly dancing around the room to 'Take Me Home Tonight'. I've had it stuck in my head a lot lately, for some reason.

After narrowly avoiding burning myself through lack of concentration when flipping the damned things, I'm left with a decent stack of pancakes to share between the two of us. I pause for a moment to drown them in syrup; then grab two forks and make for the bedroom.

"Hey, Dickie, wake up!" I'm rewarded with a soft groan of protest. I shake his shoulder and try again. "Dickie, c'mon – I made pancakes." Aha! I have his attention now.

"Pancakes?" Isn't it wonderful how food gets priority over me?

"Yup, pancakes. You have a problem with that?" He throws a mock bat-glare my way and holds his hand out for a fork, which I obligingly hand over.

"When have I ever refused your cooking, Jaybird?" He presses a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth; then we both dig in, occasionally feeding each other mouthfuls for the hell of it. A few months ago, I would have found this alarmingly domestic, but I'm getting used to allowing sappy behaviour on the four nights a week I patrol Blüdhaven. Since the cats moved up to the manor, patrol inevitably leads to spending the night at Dick's, and then, of course, to a breakfast like this (though it's not always me that makes it) before we either both head out to work or, on our days off (because Bruce sneakily arranged for mine to match with Dick's, when he set up my job), find something fun to do. Today comes under the second category.

"You got any ideas for today, Dickie-bird?" Grinning devilishly, he slips the fingers of one hand under my towel and runs them around the makeshift waistband, sending delicious shivers down my spine.

"Oh, I can think of one or two…" I'm beginning to wish I hadn't asked. No, that's not true – I'm going to enjoy this – but I had been hoping we could go out somewhere. Still, take what's given, hey? We can always go out later.

"Only one or two? I'm disappointed, Wingnut." Funny how I can never quite resist teasing him.

"I think you know perfectly well I was being figurative, Jaybird." I freeze for a moment as his hand begins to work its way lower; and he takes advantage of my momentary silence to start nipping at my collarbone. Sometimes, I think he has a thing about collarbones, but that may just be my imagination.

"…Yeah. I – ah – definitely knew that… Your point is…?" Why is he so damned good at making it impossible to concentrate?

"You're an ass."

"And you're a dick. Shut up and screw me, already."

* * *

It's almost noon by the time we actually make it out of the bedroom. One of these days, I should really try refusing to let Dick fuck me, just to see the look on his face… Not that I'm liable to do that any time in the near future. What can I say? I like him. And now would be a good time to change my train of thought. Damn him for being the sexiest man to ever walk the Earth.

"Dickie, do you think Bruce is ever going to forgive me?" It was the first thing that came into my head, okay – don't judge me. Dick frowns slightly.

"To be honest, Jase, I think it's more a case of whether he'll ever forgive _himself_…" Of course. It was a stupid question, and now Dick's unhappy. Why do I always put my foot in it? I snuggle closer against him on the couch.

"I need to forgive him first, huh?" That brings a vaguely amused half-smile to his lips.

"Something like that. Is that ever likely to happen?" There's an edge of _something_ in his voice, but I'm not entirely sure what.

"I dunno. Hadn't really thought about it, to be honest. I mean, I'm okay with the fact he didn't save me – I get that there wasn't really anything he could have done in that regard. Joker, though…it just doesn't sit right, Dickie." Dick wraps a reassuring arm around my shoulders and kisses my hair in response to my sudden tension.

"You're getting there, Jaybird. Give it time." His fingers trace tiny circles on my right bicep, gentle and soothing. This is why I gave up killing for him: he makes me feel human. Human and alive.

"Anyway," I'm eager to change the subject, "how's Timmy?" That gains me a genuine smile.

"Oh, he's alright. Still hasn't grown out of asking me for help with his homework." In other words, Time has been using Dick to keep Damian out of his room while he works. Smart move – for some reason, the Demon actually pays _some_ attention to what Dickie-bird tells him to do.

"And Alfie?" Because, in all reality, I miss Alfred. Dick gives a soft chuckle.

"He thinks I should start bringing you along to Sunday dinners at the manor."

"What, despite the fact he _knows_ I'll argue with Bruce?" Because, frankly, I can't imagine many situations more likely to end in bloodshed (or at least one hell of a shouting-match) than a family dinner that includes both Batman and the Red Hood.

"Yup. I said I'd ask you." Oh, so he's leaving it to _me_ to face the decision between potential carnage and disappointing Alfred. How wonderful.

"You're an utter bastard sometimes, love." He flashes me an impish grin.

"You'll come, then?" I roll my eyes.

"Do I have any choice?" This raises a positively evil cackle from him.

"Nope!" He dives off the couch and flips across the room as I lunge after him.

* * *

After an hour and a half of chasing Dick around the apartment, I finally admit defeat and flop down onto the floor in the lounge, not even bothering to stay upright as far as a chair. Laughing, he sprawls out next to me.

"We should do this more often…"

"What, run round like a couple of kids?" Is he completely mad?

"Sort of, I guess. But I really mean we should just hang out – the way we used to sometimes before…you know…" He looks slightly uncomfortable, struggling with how to phrase it.

"Before I died?" No point dancing around the elephant.

"Um, yeah." He rubs the back of his head in a slightly embarrassed fashion. "We used to have fun, back then. Not that we don't have fun now, but…well, you know what I mean."

"Yeah." Back in the day, we could be so carefree. Somehow, I doubt we'll ever go back to that. "How about some lunch, hey?" When in doubt, change the topic to food.

"Sure, why not. I'll cook." I stare hard at him. Surely he's not serious? I mean, I trust him with breakfast, but there's a limit to how badly wrong you can get pancakes or waffles. Lunch is rather more of a step into the unknown.

"Er…What exactly were you thinking of making?" _Please_ let it be something edible – I hate having to persuade him out of trying to feed me peculiar things.

"Wait and see." Oh dear…

* * *

I grin as I hop off my bike, glad to be back home – I'm looking forward to hitting the streets of Gotham. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy patrolling Blüdhaven with Dick, but Gotham's where all my contacts are, and I know the streets so much better there. It's also nice to get back into my old gear: I couldn't deal with wearing spandex _all_ the time. Or Dick's cooking. One of these days I will have to buy him some recipe books. I didn't manage to figure out exactly _what_ lunch was, but I'm pretty sure I'd rather not have it again. It took me most of the afternoon to digest the damned stuff.

Still, it's getting dark now, and I make quick work of arming myself to the teeth. I think I'll hit the docks for a bit; maybe drop in on one of my 'friends' round there for a heads-up on what's been going on over the last two days.


	2. The Sincerest Form

**AN: First off, I'm incredibly sorry that this chapter's taken so long - I've had a load of college work to contend with, and my muse ran away temporarily. Secondly, massive thanks to CreamyChocolatez, Chaseha-Wing, Kailyssa, DeathXByXSelf, teenagejustice, Rina, VampirePrinssess, and LittleEvilAngel for reviewing: crikey, there's a lot of you guys, and you're all great :) Anyhow, I hope you enjoy it...**

* * *

**The Sincerest Form**

Sudden animosity is never a good thing, especially when it comes from people who owe you a debt of gratitude. I have a horrible feeling I've missed something very important – why else would I suddenly be the object of such harsh looks from the girls who work the streets around the docks. I wouldn't mind so much if it weren't for the fact they look afraid, as well as unfriendly: I'm going to have to work twice as damned hard to find someone who'll tell me what the fuck's going on.

I make for the old warehouse where the majority of them congregate around here – it's not exactly a warehouse anymore; more a sort of cheap, communal living-space for those streetwalkers that either can't afford proper flats or are too young to live alone without people getting nosy about it. I'll say one thing for Gotham's prostitutes: they look out for one another. Only way to get by in a city like this.

As usual, the place is pretty busy, but the distance they keep away from me is definitely not normal. I glance around in an attempt to catch sight of one of the 'big sisters' who're in charge of this place. They're an odd lot, but they're far more likely to talk to me than anybody else here. Ah, there's Susie. No mistaking the dyed-red hair and angular build. I walk towards the ex-kick-boxer, careful not to take her by surprise – she's not nice when you sneak up on her.

"Hood." She doesn't look up, but the tone of her voice is cold enough to let me know she's not happy I'm here. Great.

"Look, will somebody _please_ explain to me what the fuck is happening? Since when am I public enemy number one?" I'm really getting frustrated here.

"You mean it _wasn't_ you that killed Helen?" Everybody seems to be staring at me in shock.

"Helen's _dead_?" The ditzy fifteen-year-old who never stopped asking questions is dead? _Fuck_.

"They pulled her out of the dock last night. Killed the way you used to kill your targets, apparently." Ah. This…could be awkward…

"Does Batman know?" Because I'm going to have to be a hell of a lot more discreet in my investigations if he does.

"How the hell should I know?" And now I've put Susie's back up. Wonderful.

"Look, Suse, work with me on this one, okay? Batman isn't going to accept that I don't know a damn thing about this, so I need to find out what's going on before he decides to lock me up on the off-chance that I had something to do with it. Now, does he know about it, or doesn't he?" Finally, she lifts her gaze to look at me.

"They lit the signal earlier this evening. Watch your back." She drops the eye contact, and I count myself dismissed.

Why do I always get caught up in these things? I mean, it's not like you see Dick or Tim getting randomly accused of murder. Admittedly, they don't have quite my track-record, but still… I frown behind my helmet and hit the rooftops. If Bruce only found out about this earlier tonight, I probably have an hour or two at most before he locates me, and I'm not really looking forward to what might happen if I haven't got at least _some_ evidence of my innocence by then. First things first – find the crime scene. Shouldn't be too hard. After all, there are only so many places you could take a body to the docks from easily. Of course, the murderer could be based further afield, but if they deliberately tried to set me up to take the fall for them (call me paranoid, but I have to consider it), that's unlikely – I'm a Gotham boy through and through; so are most people who know my style.

* * *

So far, I have a size 10 boot print and a set of tire-tracks with very little in the way of distinguishing features – they're the most common tread for mid-sized cars in this neck of the woods, and seem fairly evenly-worn; not run ragged and not brand-new. I think I've currently narrowed the vehicle search down by about 30%. On the plus side, I don't have size 10 feet. Admittedly, it's not conclusive evidence, but it is at least a start to my list of 'reasons why I couldn't have done it' to give to Brucie when he decides I've gone loco. Because he _will_ think I'm a suspect. And, if he thinks I'm a suspect, he'll put me on what amounts to house-arrest at the manor, just in case I try anything stupid. Of course, if he finds much evidence that I _did_ do it, (which I sincerely hope he doesn't, because proving my innocence will be enough of a nightmare as it is) he may finally have an excuse to use that cell at the back of the Batcave. Won't that be just peachy?

I scan the alleyway one last time, just in case, and am rewarded with a few tiny flecks of what looks like blood on the wall, just below a fire-escape. That could be an interesting line of inquiry… I scrape a tiny sample from one of the flecks – it isn't much, but blood-typing could give me something a little more solid to go on than boot-prints. Or, of course, I might just end up inadvertently incriminating myself. Let's hope that doesn't happen. Now then, I wonder whether it's worth checking the rooftops: I mean, I know there was a car here, and that would explain how the body got to the docks, but the placing of that bloodstain could be important. No harm in looking, anyway. I swing myself up onto the fire-escape and make short work of the climb to the rooftops.

* * *

It's probably a bad thing that it looks like _this_ was the crime-scene. Who the heck takes a girl up onto the roof to kill her? I mean, why go to the trouble of persuading her to go up there with you, only to carry the body down again and dump it in the docks? Talk about inefficiency… Then again, I can sort of see the attraction, if you happen to be a murdering nutter – nobody around to witness anything; and it's not as if the GCPD would pick it as the most obvious place to look for clues. I shouldn't be able to relate to that. I really, _really_ shouldn't. How the fuck am I supposed to explain this as a theory that _doesn't_ make it look like I did it?


	3. Stray

**AN: Okay, so this is a really short chapter, and it's really late. I'm sorry - I've been having a bad time with my mental state lately, and so I haven't really felt much like writing. Hopefully, it's just a phase, and I'll sort myself out soon, but please don't be too mad if the next chapter takes a while. Thanks to Chaseha-Wing, teenagejustice, kaito kitsune, and LittleEvilAngel for the reviews - I appreciate it. Anyhow, hope you enjoy...**

* * *

**Stray**

Okay, time to re-think aborting my recce of the surrounding rooftops – that looks rather a lot like a body to me. I close the distance in a few easy leaps, and my suspicions are confirmed. Poor kid. Well, kid is probably taking it a _little_ far: he might not have been_ that_ much younger than me, from what I can make out. I guess there's just something about the way he's been laid out that makes him look incredibly young at first glance… Call me sissy, but I find it kind of creepy when killers take the time to arrange corpses as though they were sleeping.

I lift his wrist in a last-ditch attempt to find a pulse, but I'm not at all surprised to confirm his status as deceased. After all, with knife slashes like that in his stomach, I wouldn't exactly expect him to be particularly well. Actually, those wounds are a little odd. I lean closer to get a better look. Yup, no doubt about it, they're kris wounds. But why would anyone who had any idea what they were doing decide to slash at someone with a weapon that was designed expressly for stabbing? I mean, it's just daft… Apparently effective, but not logical. One more point on my list: I'm not that stupid.

I brush the dark curls away from the boy's face and frown at him behind my helmet. What did he ever do to deserve this, I wonder? If this is supposed to be an imitation of me, it's a bad one – I've never killed anyone who didn't do something to deserve it. Never. And, whilst I'm not exactly proud of some of the things I've done, I can still count myself one hell of a lot better than whatever sick fuck has decided to start killing kids on my turf.

I jerk away from the body slightly as a soft thump from behind me announces that I'm no longer alone on the roof.

"Jesus, Jase, what happened?" Ah. Timmy. I relax again.

"Someone doesn't know how to use a kris, apparently." Isn't it wonderful how I manage to constantly sound like an uncaring bastard at murder scenes?

"…Would this be a bad time to tell you Bats has decreed that I have to stick with you until this" Tim gestures slightly uncomfortably towards the body I'm kneeling beside "mess gets sorted out?" No house arrest? I guess Bruce has more faith in me than I thought.

"I can live with that: you're not bad company. C'mon, let's see what we can make of this before you call it in." I turn away from my little brother to search the body for ID, letting Tim deal with trying to find anything to suggest who the killer was. I find something in his back pocket – a shiny new driver's licence. He was Luka Andreivitch Tarasov. Russian father, at the very least, then… And only seventeen years old. Fuck it; I was right to call him a kid… I rest a hand gently on his shoulder and bow my head slightly. I'm sorry, Luka. I'll find whoever did this.

"Jay? I think I've got about all I'm going to get from here. It's not much, but we might be able to do some DNA cross-referencing back at the cave. You done?" Tim sounds hesitant, and I realise I've been staring at the body for a few seconds too long.

"Sure. Call it. Luka Tarasov. Born April 30th, seventeen years ago." I walk a few steps away while he contacts Bruce – I don't need to hear it.


End file.
